Fixed

Don’t move, she told him. So he didn’t. He stood as steady as he could. He tried to think of sturdy things he could emulate and be inspired by. Beefeaters at Buckingham Palace. The new towel rack he’d installed in the bathroom the other day. Germany’s economy. This helped. He held his hand, palm down, out and in front of him. It didn’t waver. Good job, he thought.

Look up man! Fer fuck sakes. I almost had it, she barked. He looked back up at the ceiling fan. There was dust caked on top of its spinning blades. How did the dust not just fly off? He was impressed by the steadfast little particles. They inspired him much like the Beefeaters and Deutsch GDP did before them. He felt pride in his own anchoring. The little dots he watched float through the light of the ceiling fan looked to him like confetti––celebratory confetti for a job well done on being so stable. As it donned on him that the celebratory confetti was actually dust from the fan above, he screamed. She’d finally gotten it out from underneath his eyelid, waving his errant, freshly clipped toenail in front of his face like a dog biscuit.